The pilot of the modified private plane gently set the wheels down on the runway at Khankendi Air Base. Azerbaijan had made several of its bases available to Israeli military planes in the past. Some were even closer to the Mossad team’s ultimate target. But Khankendi had the benefit of being far enough off the beaten path that no one paid close attention to what went on there. Some of the town’s residents might notice a Gulfstream jet flying overhead and making a landing. But they would likely chalk up its appearance to being a few more Azeri politicians coming in to rummage through some of the belongings that the more wealthy of the fleeing Armenians had left behind.
As the plane taxied into a hangar, Nir spotted the man he was here to meet. Although his hair was now all white, Nir would have recognized his thick mustache anywhere. He had first come across Elnur Isayev more than five years ago during a very successful operation to steal Iran’s nuclear secrets out of a Tehran warehouse full of vaults. All had gone perfectly until Nicole got herself arrested after breaking the nose of a handsy policeman.
I do not want to revisit that event, Nir thought, shaking the memory from his mind. Not now. Not ever.
The former assistant deputy head of the Azerbaijani Foreign Intelligence Service had proven himself to be a reliable ally during that operation. Nir hoped that nothing had changed in the man’s trustworthiness over the intervening years. He and his men were depending on this aging fellow intelligence operator.
Once the plane came to a stop, Nir lifted his bag from the seat across the aisle and made his way to the front. The stairs had already been lowered, and as he mounted the first one, he heard the flight attendant’s voice behind him.
“Have fun storming the castle, boys.”
That woman has got a story. Maybe I can coax it out of her if she’s still here for the flight home.
But he had no time to think about her now; Isayev’s voice was already booming out from the bottom of the stairs.
“Welcome! Welcome, my friends!”
Even before Nir reached the bottom of the stairs, he was assaulted by the harsh odor of the nasty Turkish cigarettes the man chain-smoked. Back when he had first met him, Nir had wondered how the man hadn’t yet keeled over from cancer. Now that he had to at least be in his early seventies, Isayev was a walking miracle of nicotine resistance. Dressed in a dark blue business suit, the old man held a cane in both hands like a staff, almost as if he were trying to mask the fact that he needed it for walking.
“Deputy Isayev,” Nir replied, holding out his hand.
Taking the proffered hand, the deputy said, “Elnur, please. I’m too old for formalities.”
As Nir stepped aside, Isayev said, “And I recognize you. You were Tavor’s right-hand man even back then, right?”
“I was, and I am. Yaron Eisenbach.” The two shook hands.
“Still together after all these years. That never happens in Azerbaijan. Inevitably, one or the other winds up captured, court-martialed, or killed. And you are?”
“Gil Haviv. I’m the new guy.”
As they shook hands, the old man said, “New guy, huh? That wouldn’t have anything to do with that nasty business in Damascus, would it?” Then he waved his hands. “No, forget I asked. None of my business. Tell me, how was your flight?”
He began walking across the hangar toward a row of offices. The three Israelis followed.
“I’ve flown enough commercial coach to never complain about a private jet,” answered Nir.
Isayev roared with laughter. Ten or twelve steps along, the old man gave in to necessity and the cane began tapping the ground with his steps. “We will eat, and then I will send you to your friends. But let me say to you, I don’t like these Kurds you are meeting. They are unsavory and obnoxious. Most loathsome of all is that colonel friend of yours. I promise you—for the right amount of money, he would betray you in a heartbeat.”
That colonel was a major when Nir had met him. And, under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have trusted him either. “I recognize your concerns. But this one owes me a debt.”
Isayev grunted. “For being such dishonorable people, the Kurds do tend to honor their debts.”
The smells reached Nir well before they arrived at a certain office with an open door. So strong were they that they even overpowered Isayev’s cigarette stench.
Standing at the entrance with his arm extended in, Isayev said, “Come. Eat and enjoy. Then you may go to meet your Kurds.” A tablecloth covered an office table. There were four place settings, and each man took a seat. Along with a plethora of side dishes, the men feasted on dolma stuffed with beef and spices, dushbara dumplings in a broth, and an oversized platter of kourma plov with the most tender mutton that Nir had ever tasted. When the baklava and pastries came out at the end, the three operatives tried to politely refuse. Isayev was adamant, however, and an international incident was averted only when the men agreed to take a bag filled with the desserts.
With their stomachs filled and their heads more than a little groggy from the long flight, the Mossad agents thanked Isayev for the feast and got up to leave.
As they stepped outside the hangar, Gil said, “Oh, I recognize her.”
Nir smiled. He, too, had a history with what was waiting for them in the lot. A Plasan SandCat armored vehicle sat idling, taking Nir back to his days in the IDF. Plasan was a manufacturing company headquartered in northern Israel that specialized in armored vehicles and robotics. The SandCat was one of their more widely disseminated models, reaching Central Europe, South America, and, apparently, here in Azerbaijan.
Isayev laughed. “You like her? I thought you would. A little taste of home away from home. Your driver, Jafarov, will take you to the Kurds. From what you have told me, they will get you the rest of the way to your destination.”
Nir stopped at the front passenger door and turned. It took a few moments for Isayev to limp up to him. Reaching out his hand, Nir said, “My friend, thank you for arranging all this.”
Isayev leaned his cane against his body and enveloped Nir’s hand with both of his. “Listen, after hearing what those motherless sons had done to your people, I wanted to trade this cane in for a rifle and go down there myself. When you called me for help, I couldn’t help but say yes. I don’t know what you’re here to do, but I’m thankful to be part of it. Now, go, be safe, and make them pay.” The old man’s grip became surprisingly firm as he said those last words.
“We’ll do it. And I’ll say your name when they go down.”
The former spook’s eyes moistened. He shook Nir’s hands up and down several times, saying, “Yes, do that. You do that.” Then he released Nir and turned to go.
The others had already climbed up into the back of the vehicle. As Nir opened the front passenger door, he heard Isayev’s voice again.
“Hey, Tavor, whatever happened to that feisty South African? She was certainly a spitfire. Broke the Iranian dog’s nose! Did you ever marry her?”
Nir turned. “She’s still around, and as feisty as ever. And, no, I haven’t married her.”
“Why not?”
This was not a conversation that Nir wanted to have right now in front of his team as he was setting off on a mission. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” Isayev waved his hand dismissively and turned around. As he walked, he said, “Israelis! Brilliant at making war; fools at making love.”
Nir stared at the old man’s back for a moment before sliding into the front seat of the armored vehicle. As he did, without turning around, he snapped, “Shut up. Just shut up.”